Coming Home to Scotland and Scottish Poetry

Until 2001, my mom thought our genealogy traced to England and Germany, but that year she and her brother discovered to their surprise that the ancestors they presumed were English actually came from Scotland. After tracing our family name to Kirkcudbright, where Robert Burns visited the Selkirk Inn and offered the famous “Selkirk Grace” (offered at the beginning of Burns Suppers), Mom began to refer to him as “Bobbie” Burns. Aye, once we knew we were Scottish, we felt a level of familiarity with Scotland’s national poet.

That year, Mom and her brother flew to Scotland and traipsed the countryside visiting cemeteries, museums, castles and libraries in search of more clues. Before long, they met distant relatives who called them “cousins” and welcomed them into their homes, shared stories, invited them to dinner and served them cookies.

While sitting behind a small church by the Kirkcudbright harbor, surrounded by “a host of golden daffodils,” Mom wrote in her journal, “Are we drawn to this place because our roots are here? Or because it is so charming?” And my uncle felt such a draw to Scotland after that first trip, he returned many times over the years, staying for weeks at a time. He became such a regular, the locals greeted him by name when he stepped into the pub for a drink.

But “Bobbie” Burns is the one I feel I must attend to, and I’m sorry I missed the Burns Supper hosted by our local Scottish Society here in the States to commemorate Burns Night, January 25. I’m reminded Burns penned the poem we sing on New Year’s Eve, Auld Lang Syne and the classic poem “A Red, Red Rose”:

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!

Lingering on the lochs and moors of Scotland, if only through verse, I sense the love of the land and language, the pride in the people and poets. Then I stumble on this brief poem from George MacDonald, and I hear the words all the way from Scotland, across time and space, linking poet and place to person.

38 Comments so far

Lovely post, Ann. Scotland truly is a gorgeous place. I’d like to go back. I visited on my first trip to the UK and while I’ve been to England a number of times since, I haven’t gotten back to the lochs and moors.

We toured the island – England/Scotland/Wales – by car for our 25th wedding anniversary. One of my favorite trips ever. Didn’t go as far north as we would have liked, however. It’s a gorgeous, haunting place – and the further in you go, the harder it is to understand what people are saying! This is lovely, Ann. And I think you might very much enjoy reading about this (very, VERY expensive) book: http://www.fromtheland.co.uk/

this piece makes me long for something i don’t know
about
roots, ancestors, beginnings
(other than THE garden, of course).
father’s side – i never knew a single one
and he died when i was a babe,
far too young to wonder
about
roots, ancestors, beginnings.
mother’s side – all of the old-timers, gone
as of last autumn. and my momma
never took the time to consider or think
about
roots, ancestors, beginnings
because she was working too hard to feed us
and pay rent in the home where we
lived. in the place
that we knew something
about.

I’m thinking that one’s past needn’t be hindered by lack of information. There are clues that exist inside us, like Darlene’s poem finds. Curious what information you might be intrigued by. It might be more historical than what I’m thinking?

clues that exist inside of us – that’s where i’m at after some fruitless searching. it’s not the movies where everyone is gleeful to share their current life with those who share blood. i had a telephone conversation with a half-sister that could’ve been fodder for a soap opera. but, at least i did discover i have native american blood in these here veins. it explains something about my dark hair and hazel green eyes vs. the blonde, blue eyes of my other kin.

I love the photos and rich heritage of the Highlands. I WISH I was Scottish, but I’m not. But I go to every Celtic everything around here. Just love the culture and the way they kept the Gospel simple.

These photos certainly reinforce the enchantment! Thank you for taking time to read this, Linda, and to comment, sharing your dreams of the moors. My mom has been able to go several times, and we’ve enjoyed her photos and stories. It’s the next-best thing to going there myself–living vicariously.

I enjoyed your post very much. I work for Keep Scotland Beautiful (an environmental charity) and I am the Development Officer for Eco-Schools Scotland responsible for our Young Reporters for the Environment programme. Many years ago Norman MacCaig was teaching at Stirling University when I was an undergraduate. I was not taking English Literature but did hear him read his work. He invited his old friend (and by then very frail) Hugh McDiarmid to give a guest lecture which I was priveleged to witness. It is wonderful that MacCaig’s works are now part of Scotland’s High School poetry syllabus.

Three men are pulling
at the starboard oar,
the man I am and was
and the man I’ll be.

The boat sails
to a blind horizon.
Who’s pulling on the port side oar
that keeps our course straight?

Pull as we may
We’re kept from turning
to port or starboard by that
invisible oarsman.

Our families were miles apart, Megan: my family’s castle down in the southern part of Scotland; yours, farther north. Perhaps they brushed up against one another at a market in Edinburgh on cool autumn afternoon, when they both traveled there for something special?

I’m a Campbell with the big round eyes and my mother was Irish so I’m Scot/Irish and growing up heard many stories of my people in Scotland mostly. My grandmother was a Zwick and her parents were from Canada. We had one Grandfather who was a Preacher but the faith was never mentioned. We were told an Uncle who was a black sheep of the family was kicked out of Scotland. All I do know is growing up we had potatoes every night for dinner, seven days a week. If you’ve never read the story of potatoes and how they kept themselves and other’s alive because of growing them it makes for an interesting story. I long to go, to kiss the ground, to wallow in it. With each setback I see a sharp decline in my health. There’s no way my body could walk it, for even now to run errands lands me in bed for hours. Diseases are so awful to have but I have enjoyed writing, meeting each of you, pushing myself to do better, reading a poem everyday. These are things I will miss one day but I’m ever so thankful to have been a part of. Yo make me smile through the tears.

I enjoyed reading your recollections, Marcy, especially the rumor about the black sheep who was kicked out. That would make an interesting theme to pursue as a community of writers – rumored black sheep in families……IF enough time has passed to do the telling.

Oh, Marcy, I feel like you and I are walking the moors together in our hearts and minds, even if we never make it there in person. And I’m so sorry that you are going through struggles that keep you from living the way you want–but how beautiful that poetry–and those who love poetry–are helping you live a rich, creative, mentally stimulating life. I’m so thankful you’re here, that you’re part of our world here at Tweetspeak, and that we share these roots tracing to Scotland.

Thank you for reminding me how precious and essential potatoes were for sustenance. Bless you.

Though the lass be fair
with freckles and red hair
she skips among the rocks
near the cliffs that plunge
to the sea below.
Crashing waves
hit like thunder
their sound so loud
my ears doeth hurt.
I’m just a lass
encouraged to wander
the mighty giant green
earth.
Where dragons
once roamed
now men of stone.
Old churches in crumbles
castles take their tumbles.
Bits and pieces
stones broken
some cast aside.
Who lived in
this castle?
Follow the
stone walls
which go on
for miles
until I reach
my home.

Marilyn, thank you, yes, much time has passed, sounds like a great idea. Baa, Baa, Black Sheep have you been any good?

Ann, we are walking those moors together as our long skirts bellow in a time when our heads were covered in black velvet hats with satin ties. The mind is so strong you can go anywhere, anytime and be at peace with the green at your feet. In real life before the disease started taking my body, I’m smiling right now because I built stone walls. Drove to places where empty old houses stood abandoned and there I walked and plucked the old stones and carried them home. My joy came from building old stone walls. They were my hand work, my fingerprints were all over them. Heck, that’s why I drive a truck girl.